Ere servant-maids had wont to rise Now mony a scaw'd and bare-ars'd loun Eneugh to fley a muckle town, Wi' dinsome squeel and bark. Here is the true and faithfu' list O' noblemen and horses; Their eild, their weight, their height, their grist, That rin for plates or purses, Fu' fleet this day." To whisky plouks that brunt for ouks Their stumps, erst used to philabegs, Are dight in spatterdashes, Whase barken'd hides scarce fend their legs Frae weet and weary plashes O' dirt that day. Come, hafe a care," the captain cries, "On guns your bagnets thraw; Now mind your manual exercise, And marsh down raw by raw.' 'Mang them full mony a gawsy snout Wi' bluid that day. "Her nainsel maun be carefu' now, Though they should dearly pay the kain, The tinkler billies i' the Bow,* Are now loss eident clinkin', That gar their wives and childer feel O' drink thir days! The brewster wives thegither harl For weel wat they, a skin leal het At drumbly gear they tak nae pet; And drouth thir days. They say, ill ale has been the dead Then dinna gape like gleds, wi' greed, To sweel hale bickers down. *The West Bow, a street then chiefly occupied by white-iron smiths or "tinklers." Gin Lord send mony ane the morn, The Buchan bodies, through the beach, And skirl out bauld, in Norlan' speech, Gueed speldins;-fa will buy?" And, by my saul, they're nae wrang gear To gust a stirrah's mou; Weel staw'd wi' them, he'll never speir The price o' being fu' Wi' drink that day. Now wily wights at rowly-powl, Here break the banes o' mony a soul Wi' fa's upon the ice. At first, the gate seems fair and straucht, And gowd thir days. Around, where'er you fling your een, The Lion here, wi' open paw, * Finnan haddocks, or speldings, a kind of dried fish. * Wha geck at Scotland and her law, For, ken, though Jamie's laws are auld To town-guard drum o' clangour clear, Siclike in Robinhood debates,* The races owre, they hale the dules Great feck gae hirplin' hame like fools, May ne'er the canker o' the drink 'Case we get wherewitha' to wink Wi' straiks thir days! Alluding to a debating society of that name in Edinburgh, which was afterwards called the Pantheon. THE ELECTION. Nunc est bibendum, et bendere Bickerum magnum; REJOICE, ye burghers, ane an' a', Lang look'd for's come at last; Sair were your backs held to the wa' 1 Now ye may clap your wings and craw, And gaily busk ilk feather, For Deacon Cocks hae pass'd a law, Wi' drink thir days. "Haste, Epps," quo' John, "and bring my gizz; Tak tent ye dinna't spulzie; Last night the barber gae't a frizz, And straikit it wi' ulzie. Hae done your parritch, lassie Lizz, Gie me my sark and gravat; I'se be as braw's the Deacon is When he tak's affidavit O' faith the day." "Whar's Johnny gaun," cries neebour Bess, That he's sae gaily bodin, Wi' new-kaimed wig, weel syndet face, Silk hose, for hamely hodin?" "Our Johnny's nae sma' drink, you'll guess; He's trig as ony muircock, And forth to mak a Deacon, lass; The coat ben-by i' the kist-nook, That's been this towmonth swarmin', Is brought ance mair thereout to look, To fleg awa the vermin. |